Witch: The Moondark Saga, Books 7-9 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Don McQuinn

  “Oh, no,” Leclerc protested with a defensive gesture. “I promised they wouldn’t get you, and that we’d destroy them. We will.”

  Intrigued, Jaleeta walked to him, standing close. “You’re very sure of yourself. Everyone says you know magic. You made the black powder. You have magic against the Skan?”

  “Not magic; we have plans.”

  “Tell me.” Jaleeta coaxed like a child. Nevertheless, there was a full-blown woman involved, one assured of her allure. The effect on Leclerc was earthquake. His superior smile melted to a fatuous grin and braggadocio. “I had to ask Tate a few questions about weapons. I’m building something for Murdat. Windband has a similar weapon, but nothing as good as I can make. Murdat’s men will shoot arrows almost as long as a man, and they’ll go farther than any arrow ever has. The Skan will fall like this.” He swung the edge of his hand at the sere, dead stalk of tall plant. It broke with a weak snap, the seed head spinning off to slap in the pond.

  Squealing excitement, Jaleeta grasped Leclerc’s hand, held it to her cheek. “You’re wonderful. I don’t think Tate helped you at all. I think you know all these things, but you share with your friends.” She blinked. Then, almost as if disappointed, “Windband and the Skan have so many more men than Murdat.”

  “There’s something else. I won’t talk about it. You’ll see, though. You’ll brag to your grandchildren about it.”

  For a moment Jaleeta considered pressing him. She reminded herself she had the rest of fall and winter to get more details. Tears of Jade said it well: “Bait only brings the fish to the hook. The fisherman must do the rest.” Pushing the severed seed head with a careful toe, she said, “You understand so many things, Louis. Everyone says so. Murdat talks about you to Neela all the time.”

  “I try to be helpful.”

  “That’s what he says. You’re always there to help him.”

  “Friends are supposed to do that. You help me. Because you’re my friend.”

  Wide-eyed, she was dubious. “Me, help you? I don’t do anything.”

  “No one else makes me feel the way you do. Excited. Alive.”

  “I’m glad.” She looked away, studied the water. In the muddy, leaf-littered bottom, something scurried from cover to cover. Her boot flicked out stirred up waves that obscured the creature. “Even here, I know what it’s like to have no one to talk to. I mean, everyone’s nice, but I don’t have a real close friend, you know? I used to have, when I was a little girl with my tribe. I never had any friends with the Skan. Just Tears of Jade, and she didn’t really like me.”

  Tentatively, Leclerc moved to stand immediately behind her. He inhaled the smell of her hair, rich with rosewater and the scent of wet, chill fall, yet warm with her energy. He savored the soft curvature of her shoulders, the unconscious grace of her bent neck. “I’m even more your friend than Murdat’s, Jaleeta. I want you to feel the same about me. I want you to want to share with me, as I do with you.”

  She remained bent away from him. His heart crashed against his ribs. He pictured himself a thinker cast adrift in a warrior world, exposing his thoughts to ridicule. There was so much more he wanted to say, so much capacity for care that he wanted to reveal.

  A tiny shudder traced her body under the bulky clothes. Leclerc had an impression of indecipherable actions and hidden meanings. He told himself that was exactly how it was within himself, the mysterious attraction of one person for another.

  “I do want to talk to you, Louis. Not because you saved my life when I fell in the stream, but because a woman like me needs a man’s help. I can’t ask for much of your time, because you’re so important to Gan. But there are things I can’t answer, things I don’t know how to react to.” At last, she faced him. Her pain was his.

  “Tell me what it is. We’ll handle it together.”

  A wan smile shone through the trouble. She lost it, looked past him as though she might see where it had gone. Slim, strong fingers caught up a fold of her cloak and kneaded it incessantly. “Tate tells me that where you come from, women are free to choose whom they marry. Here a woman has no choice. She must be careful to offend no man. Lately, I’ve realized that two men… like me. They’ll be near me a lot. I want you to know they don’t interest me. I must be pleasant. I must be accommodating. I must be a proper woman.” The last was tainted with shame.

  Leclerc longed to take her in his arms, to make her know exactly how much woman she truly was. “Tell me their names. I’ll see they don’t bother you.”

  Alarmed, she put her hands to his chest. “You mustn’t. Their attention won’t bother me, so long as I know you understand.”

  For a few pained moments they argued. She remained adamant, finally taking refuge in a classic pout. She hinted that Leclerc was no different than her persecutors. He heard himself saying, “I’m not like that at all,” and knew he was defenseless in that instant. He surrendered gracelessly. “All right, all right; I’ll do what you think best. I don’t like it, but it’s your life.”

  “A life I owe you. I haven’t forgotten. I never will. But I understand my culture. Seriously, can you imagine me having any interest in two men like Emso, or Baron Ondrat?”

  “Emso?” Leclerc felt betrayed. Emso was a friend, a member of Gan’s intimate circle. And old, Leclerc thought. At least five, maybe seven, years older than me. Scarred. Worn out. Leclerc shook his head. It was pathetic the way some men responded to age. As for Ondrat, Leclerc felt a surge of gladness in the knowledge that he’d never really liked the man. A pompous, shifty-eyed toad. Not too bright, either. If he’d captured the Peddler who’d attacked Sylah, instead of hacking him to death, the man might have had something interesting to say.

  Jaleeta broke in. “I have to go back to my quarters. Neela’s taking me to the women’s pottery works today. Will you come to the castle with me?”

  “Anywhere.” He offered his arm, smiling. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. They walked to the entry, where she flashed a conspiratorial grin, whispering, “We have to be careful. Proper performance is all. For us, everything we do is going to be perfect.”

  The quick cut of her flashing dark eyes and the innuendo fired Leclerc’s imagination. He shrugged away the turmoil in his mind and body, sternly reminded himself that this was a young woman who’d experienced horrible trials and deprivation. She needed care and understanding, not masculine pressure. He wasn’t like Emso and Ondrat. He’d prove that to her.

  Completely involved with his own thoughts, Leclerc felt his departure was like drifting. He wished he could recall something poetic about leaving a lover. He never considered looking over his shoulder and up at the distant battlewalk.

  Kate Bernhardt watched the couple. Inner vision put her next to Louis Leclerc. Too tall to snuggle her cheek against his upper arm, Kate Bernhardt would have to bend uncomfortably even to lay a cheek on his shoulder. She smiled to herself; the discomfort would be nothing. Nor would a strand of Kate Bernhardt’s hair trail naughtily, darkly over her shoulder, shifting in the wind. Kate Bernhardt wore her hair in a practical, if fetching, shorter cut. And if it wasn’t as dramatic as Jaleeta’s ebony, it was a rich brown, smooth as dark honey. Nor was Kate Bernhardt proportioned in an image of delicate sensuality, a thing of spring steel and scented flesh. Kate Bernhardt’s beauty was the inconspicuous attractiveness of good features, a body of subtle promise, a graceful carriage that spoke of pride in femininity and all its strengths. More, her beauty was the mysterious, indefinable inner glow that marks a woman who knows love.

  Kate watched Louis stroll lightly toward an exit through the castle wall. At the last few paces, the harsh west wind caught her by surprise. It burned her eyes and brimmed them with something hatefully like tears.

  Chapter 12

  “You’re making me look like a fool.”

  Tate recoiled at the underlying desperation, the forbidden plea struggling in Nalatan’s words.

  She knew her actions were well thought out. She knew they were c
orrect. Still, she understood her husband well enough to know that logic and correctness weren’t always enough. Perceptions and the assumed perceptions of others must be addressed. In order to preserve image, Nalatan was perfectly capable of destroying reality.

  The knowledge frightened Tate. The awareness thrilled her. The twin sensations were like winds blowing across her heart. Soft breeze or raging whirlwind, she loved him.

  And she must risk that love. She must dare it to survive.

  Nalatan lay beside her on his back. The erratic glow of weakening flames reflected in his staring, unfocused eyes. It made Tate think of distant muzzle flashes, of a firefight where she was needed, but couldn’t reach.

  Her hand on his chest went ignored. She rose on an elbow, looked down at him. “Who would call Nalatan, my Nalatan, fool?”

  His eyes were suddenly alert, fixed on hers. “I want someone to say it. I know what to do about that. I don’t know how to live with the sideways looks, the hidden smiles.”

  “Because I go with another man? Is that it?”

  Nalatan closed his eyes again. “My concern is your safety. The other is an irritation, the yapping of small dogs. But it galls. No man accepts slander easily, especially when it is about his wife.”

  “Let them have their smirks. Who cares?”

  “I care. Not because they say it, but because it’s a lie about your character.”

  “You haven’t heard anyone actually say anything. You’ve got to let it go. Keep this up, and you’ll kill someone.”

  His eyes took on the hard shine of steel. “Yes.”

  “Don’t do this to me.” Tate lowered herself onto him, cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Under her ear, his heart worked with a steady, dispassionate regularity. Tate found that all the more disturbing. She knew a man of passion, of fires in his soul. This cold savage wouldn’t fight because the cause was just or the situation demanded it. This man wanted to kill.

  Tate made herself go on calmly. “Promise me you won’t let anyone goad you into fighting while I’m gone. Please. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  “Am I to not worry about you, then? You have no end to your requests?”

  “Of course I want you to worry about me. I love you. I want you to love me. I want you to care what happens to me, and I want you to care enough to know that I don’t even breathe without thinking of you.”

  “Then tell me I can accompany you. We can worry about each other together. Better yet, send Conway alone. We’ll both worry about him, instead.”

  “You’re not even trying to understand.”

  “That’s not true. I understand entirely. I hate it, that’s all.”

  “I told you it’s a religious thing. A mission. To strengthen the Three Territories.” Tate shifted, nervous with the lie.

  As if reading her thoughts, Nalatan said, “You’ve taught me much about the true meanings of Church’s words. You, Sylah, and Lanta. Church was my life before I met you. It still is, but my place in it is changed. So I do understand. You can’t ask me to be happy when my wife rides off into great danger.”

  Tate focused on the last word. Rationalization put confidence in her voice. “There’s no more danger in those mountains than there is in the streets of Ola. No roof tiles fall out of the trees, no runaway horses trample people.”

  “Can you think I haven’t thought of that? I’m the one staying in this anthill. I’m the one who’ll be surrounded by unending whispers and scheming. There’s no room here, no air. Without you…” She felt movement, and knew he’d turned his head to the side. The window was in that direction. Unless wind actually drove rain through it, he flung the shutter wide every night when they went to bed. Carefully, keeping her head still, Tate rolled her eyes as far as she could. She peered past the edge of the down-filled comforter. At the farthest edge of her vision was brittle darkness. Stars were out, myriad chips shining against the void of night.

  Rising, looking down into his pale, blurred features, she said, “Don’t think about me being gone. Think about my return. Think how happy I’ll be to see you then. Think how much I’ll want you then. No separation can hurt us, can hurt my love for you. Think of how you want to remember me while I’m gone. How you want me to remember you.”

  Slowly, almost as if afraid to move too fast, his arms rose to encircle her. Tate threw aside concerns, worries, doubts. She drew up her knees, arched her back. So braced, she stiffened momentarily, resisted the smooth power of his arms. Then she surrendered, exulted in the strength that pulled her deliciously to her lover, her husband.

  * * *

  The night guard stood in formation, having been properly relieved by the smaller day guard, and waited as the new shift ceremoniously threw open Sunrise Gate. The routine crowd was gathered there, camped beyond arrow range, as required. Quenched fires hissed and lifted clouds of steam. Mules brayed. Horses whinnied. Goats, sheep, chicken, cattle, contributed their vocalizations to the sudden wall of sound that flung itself against the city’s defenses. Above all rang the cries of herdsmen and drovers. Disdaining the furor, pack llamas hauled themselves up right with expressions of disappointed surprise. As if influenced by their animals, rather than the other way around, the llama herders moved their charges along with quiet commands and easy gestures; they contributed little to the racket.

  Tate nudged Nalatan, who sat stolidly on his horse between herself and Conway. “I’ve always liked those things.” She indicated the llamas with her chin. “They’re the classiest animal there is.”

  “I wouldn’t want to ride one into battle,” Conway said.

  Tate shot him a vexed look, then smiled at Nalatan. “You see why this’ll be a fast trip? Who’d put up with that attitude for long?”

  Nalatan’s smile was strained. “It can’t end too fast. I wish it weren’t happening.”

  “‘Tan. We talked. We decided.” There was hurt in Tate’s voice.

  Nalatan winced at her public use of the pet name. “We talked, but you decided. Never mind. You do what you must. But hurry. Please.”

  “I love you.” She bent to him swiftly, kissing him full on the lips before he could react. All around them, there was a sort of group intake of breath, and then spontaneous cheering and applause. Voices called out the names Black Lightning and Nalatan. Tate pulled back, eyes fixed on Nalatan’s. Her husband’s color went direct to crimson. Then, grinning wickedly, he kissed her in return, a long, fiery embrace that pulled her halfway out of her saddle. The crowd howled approval. This time, when they separated, Tate appeared distracted.

  “Maybe we should go now.” Conway’s suggestion came in a dry, practical voice. It snapped Tate out of her bemused state. “Yes. Go.” She seemed to have trouble articulating. Nalatan looked smug for a moment, but when her horse moved forward, the expression crumbled to solemn resignation.

  The horses breasted into the last of the entering crowd, picking their way along the narrow pathway that opened for them. Karda and Mikka shuffled along behind the horses, their occasional glance up at the passers by creating a perceptible widening of the route. From the corner of his mouth, Conway told Tate, “Don’t look back. Not even once. This hurts him enough, and a lot of waving good-bye will just make things harder.”

  Feeling very sorry for herself, Tate was hostile. “I don’t think you’re in much position to give out advice on how to deal with relationships.”

  Conway blanched as if struck. When he rounded on Tate, he opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.

  “Oh, Matt.” Tate hung her head, tried to shake away a sudden rush of burning tears. Her voice caught. “I’m so sorry. What a positively bitchy thing to do. I wasn’t thinking. I hate myself.”

  “Forget it. I can imagine the heat you got from Nalatan. The shoe could just as easily be on the other foot. We’re both wrapped about four turns too tight.”

  “I have to ask. Did you and Lanta have a chance to talk? About yourselves, I mean?”

  The
y were at the limits of the cleared area immediately outside the city walls by then, about to enter the first stand of timber. Conway looked at the towering trees and sighed. Tate had the feeling the action was an acknowledgment, more for himself than her. “I asked her to marry me.”

  Clapping, Tate laughed happily. The echo sang back from the trees. Only as it died did the melancholy of his manner strike her. Her heart sank. He went on. “She said she knows I love her. She said she loves me. But after what happened on Trader Island, down in Kos, she’s afraid. She says I didn’t believe her, didn’t trust her, when all our lives depended on it. She’s not sure I’ll ever trust her. She doesn’t know if she can ever trust me.” Conway’s monotone broke. Then he exploded with pent-up bitterness. “What’s she want from me?”

  Tate realized the question had no pat answer. Worse, Nalatan might be asking the exact same thing.

  The soft shuffle of the horses’ hooves in the damp litter of the forest trail was like speculative muttering.

  * * *

  It was four days later that Conway and Tate saw Mikka suddenly break her shambling progress along the high country trail with a sideways leap into the forest. Without hesitation, the man and woman yanked their mounts to opposite sides of the trail. As they sheltered behind huge tree trunks, they unslung wipes, each silently scanning a full half-circle. The horses, alert, eyes rolling, betrayed excitement only with an occasional twitch of ears pricked high and well forward.

  Far away, a raven croaked. Mountain wind soughed in the trees.